


Bound from the Start

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Steel Cuffs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Development, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Handcuffed Together, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9287855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft and Greg wake up handcuffed together. Sherlock wants them to figure something out. What could he mean?





	

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on a Facebook group:
> 
> Can someone write about Sherlock handcuffing them together, because he sees all the sexual tension but Mycroft thinks that Greg hates him and Greg thinks that Mycroft hates him?
> 
> Here you go Sierra, this is for you. : x

Greg awoke with a groan. He tried to move his hand to rub his eyes, but a jingle and an unfamiliar weight prevented him from moving. He opened his eyes with a frown, trying to shift his wrist, the familiar jingling telling him that he was handcuffed to something.

As another voice groaned, he amended his thought to, ‘handcuffed to some _one_.’ His head wasn’t sore, actually, he felt fine, except for the fact that he was handcuffed to

“Mycroft?” Greg said aloud in amazement. Of all the people in all the world, he thought. Apart from the idea being completely crazy in itself, he had no idea why someone would want to handcuff him to one of the most unpleasant men he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

At the sound of his name, Mycroft had stirred, his own cuffed wrist shifting as he sat himself up. He blinked a little, stared in confusion at Greg before the jingle of the handcuff also alerted him to their predicament.

“Greg,” he said in his ‘I’m trying to be civil but I’d rather you were a feral cat’ voice.

His smile was sickly, Greg thought grumpily.

“What the hell is this?” Greg exploded, shaking his wrist at Mycroft as though he was to blame.

“I have no idea. What is the last thing you recall?” Mycroft asked, frowning as he thought back too.

“I got into a black car, thought it was one of yours, actually,” Greg said. His hand went to his neck at the same time as Mycroft’s did, each recalling the same sharp sting and then blackness.

“Sherlock.” They said at the same time, knowledge, if not understanding, coming to each at the same time.

For the first time now, Greg looked around. They appeared to be in a largish bedroom. Wooden floor, single window, no furniture. Two doors, one with a lock and one without; probably a cupboard or bathroom, he surmised. There was something familiar, though, something he could not put his finger on…

“We are in the upstairs bedroom of 221b, Baker Street.” Mycroft said, his drawl sounding softly across Greg’s thoughts. Of course. He could smell tobacco, tea, and the faint burnt chemical smell he always associated with Sherlock.

“True though that may be,” Greg said, fighting to keep the impatience and sarcasm from his voice, “what the hell are we doing here?”

Mycroft looked at him, then shrugged. He went to stand, however Greg’s arm was pulled upwards as he did so.

“Careful!” Greg grumbled, though he worked to coordinate with Mycroft until they were both standing. He brushed himself down with his free hand, then examined the handcuffs. They were his, he realised, cuffing his left hand to Mycroft’s right. Tight enough to be inescapable without the key, not so tight it would restrict circulation. He moved his arms and legs, checking everything was in working order, then copied Mycroft, checking his pockets only to find them cleaned out entirely. As he wondered exactly what the purpose was of this joke, if it was indeed a joke, an envelope slid under the door. Greg moved instinctively, ignoring Mycroft’s grunt of protest as he ducked down to pick up the paper. It was addressed to ‘Mycroft and ~~Graham~~ Greg’ in Sherlock’s distinctive scrawl. Greg looked at Mycroft, eyebrows raised, and Mycroft gave an impatient sigh before ripping open the envelope and removing the single piece of paper.

 

“Brother and Lestrade,” Mycroft read aloud, “You have twenty four hours to resolve your differences. John and I can see the truth; neither of you is so intellectually challenged that you should not be able to figure it out, given sufficient incentive.”

 

Mycroft looked at Greg, who stared back blankly. He had no idea what it meant.

“Is that it?” He asked, and Mycroft nodded, “Hmm.”

He passed the paper to Greg, who read the words again, though no new meaning came to him. Suddenly, the awkwardness of this whole thing struck Greg. Until now, they had been concentrating on their joint predicament – handcuffed together for some reason in Baker Street. Now, Sherlock’s intention was clear, and they had nothing to do but talk to each other for the next twenty four hours. By mutual consent they sat, backs against the wall.

“So,” Greg said, needing to fill the silence. “What is this truth your brother thinks he and John know about us?” He figured that the sooner they solved Sherlock’s puzzle, the sooner they would be able to get out of there. Mycroft just gave him a withering look without deigning to respond. Greg smarted, offended at the slight by Mycroft. When this happened, which it often did, he generally held his tongue, then either snapped at Sally or went to the pub and drank a few more pints than were strictly necessary. This time, though, he had nothing to lose. No job to consider, no Sherlock to lose from his most difficult crime scenes.

“What exactly is your problem, Mycroft?” He asked, voice mild. When there was no reply, he kept talking, deciding that this was like breaking a suspect. Sooner or later, something hit home, and they replied. Plus, he had nothing better to do.

“There must be something about me that really presses your buttons. We’re sitting here in an empty room, handcuffed together by your mad brother with nothing to do but talk to each other and you’re ignoring me? That’s not going to fly, because I have a lot of experience getting people to talk when they don’t want to, and this seems like the perfect scenario to stretch those muscles.” He paused, partly to rally his thoughts and partly to look at Mycroft, to see if anything he had said had made an impression. The look started out harshly, but as he looked, his gaze softened. Mycroft, when he wasn’t being snarky or superior, had quite a nice face, actually, Greg thought, and then his traitorous brain wondered if the few freckles he spied on the edge of his jaw extended past the collar of his three piece suit. He turned his gaze away, having a firm conversation with his libido about proximity not equalling attraction, especially not with Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman.

“You are remarkable, Detective Inspector, are you aware of that?” Mycroft said quietly, still facing away from Greg.

He blinked, not exactly sure of what it was he heard. “Pardon?” Greg said, remembering his manners, kind of.

“I started our relationship on entirely the wrong footing, and I have had no option but to continue as such. Despite my ‘kidnappings’ as you call them, the late phone calls and my admittedly disproportionate demands on your time with regards to my brother, you remain, as always, loyal to him.”

 Greg blinked again, processing this strange statement. As he opened his mouth, Mycroft turned to him with an expression such as he had never seen before. It was something like humility.

“I apologise, Detective Inspector, for my appalling presumption when it comes to you, your time and your position within Scotland Yard.”

Greg was gobsmacked. In no alternative universe would he ever have thought that Mycroft Holmes would apologise to him.

“Um, no problem?” He ventured, hoping Mycroft would elaborate, which he did.

“We are sitting here, drugged against our will, handcuffed to the man we each believe must loathe us beyond compare, and rather than curse my brother, or try and escape his prison, you decide to follow his will and have a conversation with me about my motives, and, I assume, your own.”

Greg shrugged self-consciously, not sure he deserved such honourable motives. “I just figured we might as well, seeing as we are stuck here and all,” he said, and they lapsed into silence for a few moments. Greg had no idea what to say, so he said the first thing he thought of. “Where’s your umbrella?”

Mycroft looked startled, then looked around the bare room, seeing no evidence of it.

“Sherlock must have it.” He said.

Greg grinned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your umbrella before,” he said, and Mycroft looked uncomfortable.

“It’s not just an umbrella, is it?” Greg asked.

Mycroft said primly, “I am not at liberty to say.”

This was such an expected response that Greg burst out laughing, the release making him feel much better after such a bizarre start to his day. “Not like I’m in a position to tell anyone, is it?” He pointed out, and Mycroft relaxed, even cracking a smile, Greg noticed. He had a nice smile, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“I’ve never seen you smile before, either,” Greg noted, and Mycroft shifted uncomfortably.

“What did you mean by ‘you started our relationship on the wrong footing’?” Greg asked seriously, feeling that they really should take advantage of this opportunity. There was nothing else to do, after all.

“I have dealt with a large number of police officers in conjunction with my brother over the years, Detective Inspector.”

“Please call me Greg, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s face made a strange expression, but he inclined his head and said, “Gregory.” Greg nodded. Close enough. Mycroft continued with his explanation. “Of all of them, only one has shown any interest in my brother beyond keeping him out of their crime scenes or prosecuting him for his considerable number of offenses. Generally, a hard line is required to gain their compliance; a stern façade, veiled threats and occasionally bribery.”

“All the things you tried with me.” Greg noted, and Mycroft nodded.

“You were the first, Gregory, to see the potential in my brother and to make the effort to help him realise that. By the time I had seen that quality in you, you had developed an image of me as the stony-faced elder brother, unfeeling and cold, willing to do anything to save his brother no matter the cost.”

Mycroft seemed regretful, Greg thought.

“Not entirely false,” Greg admitted. “But over the years I’ve seen more of you than you think, Mycroft. You will do anything for Sherlock, but not entirely out of a sense of responsibility; you love him and feel guilty when he gets himself into trouble. You are actually quite considerate, but you never show it. Drives me mental, actually, that I know what you’re really like but you never show it.”

Mycroft was confused, Greg realised, sighing.

“We’ve known each other for how long, Mycroft?” Greg asked, shifting his weight so he could look at Mycroft from a slightly different angle.

“Six years, eight months and fourteen days,” Mycroft answered.

Greg laughed at the speed and accuracy with which he gave it. “Exactly. And you know the answer to that. You also knew when my marriage fell apart, and I suspect why, because my ex-wife never even tried for her part of the house, which I suspect you arranged.” Mycroft looked guilty enough to confirm Greg’s suspicions. He went on, “You know when we have a particularly difficult case, you never come around until it’s been done for a few days, and then it’s usually some flimsy excuse. You’re checking up on me. The better chair in my office only came after I’d been complaining to you about my back; you’ve dropped me home from work when it’s raining and at least once Sherlock has come to a crime scene he definitely didn’t want to come to even though we were desperate.” Greg stopped, and he could see that Mycroft was surprised, impressed and something else, something more emotional.

He filed it away for a moment, then said, “For some reason you keep tabs on me, Mycroft, but you never bother to talk to me, ask me any of it, you just find out and do things. You seem to care, somehow, but not once have you been anything but aloof and condescending, and I have no bloody idea why. I just wish you’d stop!” His voice had risen to almost a shout at this point, and the sound reverberated around the empty room when he had finished like the ringing of a bell. Greg was a little out of breath but he felt better in a way. He had been so frustrated with Mycroft for so long, wanting to know what the hell was the man’s problem but never having an opportunity to ask him. And now he’d had the chance to say it, at least. Even if Mycroft denied or dismissed it, it was out there, and he could move on, with any luck. Not be so annoyed all the time, having thoughts of Mycroft keeping him up after their encounters. Not having to be short with him so he could hold his tongue (and his job).

“Again, my apologies, Gregory. I had no idea you were keeping such an accurate ledger of my attentions.” Mycroft said quietly, looking towards Greg, if not entirely at him. He paused, and Greg waited, determined that it be Mycroft’s turn to speak.

“You have a number of qualities which I admire, Gregory, of which loyalty is only one. You are considerate, hardworking, endlessly patient and the eternal optimist. I admit that on occasion I have…manufactured reasons for us to meet. I have monitored your professional and personal situation, and taken steps to mitigate any potential difficulties before they become so.” He paused again, then added,

“I apologise if any of these occurrences crossed a line, Gregory. I only meant to smooth your path where possible. It did not always seem appropriate to ask after your personal life, particularly as we had established such a hostile relationship.” Mycroft blinked.

Suddenly, Greg realised what he had seen but not recognised earlier. Mycroft was _frightened_ , but not in the way a small child fears what is under his bed; he was frightened of himself, showing his own emotion. A thought struck Greg, and he blurted it out before he could think. “You fancy me, don’t you?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Greg regretted them.

Before he could speak to mitigate his statement, Mycroft’s face flushed and he closed his eyes. “Yes.” He said simply.

Greg stared. His own brain was in meltdown at this, slotting together impressions and memories to come to the one conclusion – he was pissed at Mycroft’s behaviour because he _wanted_ to be asked personal questions, to have him manufacture reasons to see him.

“Bloody hell,” Greg muttered, more at his own realisation than Mycroft’s admission. He’d always been bisexual, but marriage had made him forget what it was to kiss a man. Without thinking, he raised his right hand to Mycroft chin, turning it towards him and meeting the soft mouth with his own. Mycroft pulled away, startled, and Greg’s fingers remained on his chin, their faces close. Mycroft looked uncertainly at Greg, who smiled reassuringly in return. Greg leaned in again, and this time Mycroft’s response was immediate. This was no chaste kiss. This was desperate, craving, trying to climb inside each other. Teeth clashed and tongues tangled, and Greg slid backwards, Mycroft following his mouth to sprawl over Greg, his hands touching Greg everywhere he could. Greg tried to reciprocate, his right hand on the back of Mycroft’s head as they kissed frantically, his left being dragged by Mycroft as he tried to pull Greg’s shirt out from his waistband. Greg pulled out of the kiss for a moment, and turned their hands so their fingers were intertwined, gripping each other. They had a moment of understanding what Greg was trying to do, and then the kissing resumed, hotter and messier than ever. Greg could not remember the last time he had been kissed with such abandon, such desperate need. It was more of a turn on than he remembered, especially as Mycroft was noisy, whimpering and moaning as Greg sucked on his lower lip and rasped kisses across his chin. He’d forgotten about the friction of stubble, and it was an amazing contrast to the soft skin of his lips. He dragged his lips across Mycroft’s jaw, teeth scraping for good measure, and the response made him growl deep in his throat. Mycroft was writhing all over him now, their clasped hands gripping so tightly that Greg wasn’t sure he could still feel his fingers. Long cool fingers were running across his ribs where Mycroft had succeeded in freeing his shirt, and Greg arched up into the contact. An unexpected side effect of this was that his groin ground against Mycroft’s thigh, the friction against his rock hard erection drawing a gasp and “bloody hell!” from his throat.

Mycroft’s thigh between his legs meant that Mycroft could grind against Greg too, and they focussed on that for a few moments, the kissing slackening as they panted hot air into each other’s necks. Greg could feel his arousal growing, wondering if he would come in his pants like a teenager, rutting on a hard floor with a man in a three piece suit, no less.

“Hang on,” he panted, struggling to sit up, and Mycroft scrambled to do so, his face dazed and delectably debauched, Greg thought absently. He untangled their handcuffed fingers and drew Mycroft’s hand along as he unbuttoned his own trousers and fumbled with Mycroft’s, shoving them down along with their pants. He groaned at the sight of Mycroft, hard and slick, and pulled him down again so they were lying on the hard floor side by side. Greg slid their handcuffed hands together between their bodies, gripping both erections together, wishing they had some lubricant. The pre-come from two of them would have to suffice, and as he started to slide them together, Mycroft twisted his wrist around so he could help. The sight of their joined hands rubbing together made Greg groan aloud, and he leaned in to kiss Mycroft, the movement awkward but entirely necessary. It was messy and imperfect, and the feeling of his impending orgasm made his concentration scatter in the wind. Mycroft was close too, judging by the moans he was making, their hands flying as the slick pre-come spread over their hands.

“Gregory…” Mycroft groaned, and the sound of his own name, being moaned with such desire gave Greg the last push he needed, and he cried out hard, his balls tightening as he spurted hot and sticky over Mycroft’s waistcoat and shirt. After a few more thrusts, Mycroft came too, hard and loud, and their hands slowed together as they nursed each other through the aftershocks of their earth shattering orgasms.

When the shuddering had subsided, Greg opened his eyes to see Mycroft looking at him. He smiled, a reaction to their earlier undertaking, and Mycroft smiled hesitantly back.

“Hi,” Greg said, with astonishing unoriginality. He didn’t care, he felt fantastic. Not only was the mystery of Mycroft solved, but he had a feeling there would be quite a lot of fantastic sex in his very near future.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied, and Greg kissed him hard, tongues tangling in an imitation of their earlier efforts.

“So do you think that was what your brother meant?” Greg asked with a wry smile. Mycroft stiffened, and Greg cursed himself for saying the wrong thing.

“Gregory,” he said, a sparkle in his eyes despite the pained expression, “now is not the time to speak of my brother.”

Greg chuckled, then replied, “Noted.” He looked down at the sticky mess, and groaned. They stood themselves up, Greg removing his shirt to try and clean up at least what was on their bodies so they could dress again. As he stood with his sticky shirt in his hand, contemplating the trip home with sticky thighs and no shirt, there was a sound at the door. A sharp knocking, the sound of a key, then retreating footsteps. Greg and Mycroft looked at each other, questioning, then as one they moved towards the door. Greg tried the handle to find it unlocked, and warily opened the door. There was a note on the ground, but by far the most interesting part was the handcuff key taped to it. Greg grabbed it, unlocking them, and they both rubbed at their wrists in relief. Greg scanned the note, then grinned at handed it to Mycroft.

_Took you long enough. Try the bathroom._

Mycroft rolled his eyes, an action that Greg suddenly found adorable, and they closed the door. Walking over to the bathroom, they found two bottles of water, several washcloths, towels and bathmats and a complete set of clothes and toiletries for each of them. Greg raised his eyebrows.

Mycroft said, “I assume Anthea was part of this plan. It is possible she could access your flat without your specific permission.” Greg shot him a look, but said nothing, an amused smile playing on his mouth.

“We have been played, Mycroft Holmes.” He declared, the amused tone in his voice now. He walked over to stand in front of Mycroft and put his hands on Mycroft’s chest, grinning at him.

“I believe so, Gregory.” Mycroft’s hands were around Greg’s waist and he kissed the detective, a chaste kiss, more a celebration that he was allowed to do this, now.

“I suppose we should shower before we go downstairs.” Mycroft suggested, and Greg looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“We have” he checked his watch, “Twenty hours and seven minutes until we absolutely have to go downstairs.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Well in that case,” he said, “I do prefer to be punctual. What on earth will we do in the meantime?” Greg grinned at him, and Mycroft kissed Greg. They could find something, he was sure.

FINIS.

 


End file.
